


They Call It Puppy Love

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:18:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It smells like Scott in here.”</p><p>Oh. “Oh. Uh - well, that makes sense, I guess. He’s slept here enough over the years, and his mom started making him keep clothes here after he came home messy a few too many times when we were younger.” Which Stiles will insist to his dying day was never actually his fault. Not that Mrs. McCall or any of the other concerned parties ever believe him. “Do you need to talk to him, or something?”</p><p>“Or something,” Isaac mumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taking in strays

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a few days ago, and finally just decided to start posting it, because it's distracting me from the other fics I'm supposed to be working on (In the immortal words of Duckie, "Ain't dat da truth?"). This should only have one or two more chapters, since I don't actually want this to be an action/adventure type fic - it's more of a fluffy/ansty pining fic.

By the time the cruiser is pulling out of their driveway, Stiles has finished putting away the dishes he and his dad used for their dinner, though the scents of onion and falafel and tzatziki linger in the air. He opens the downstairs windows to help the smell dissipate, because as appetizing as the food smelled while the were eating it, neither of them will want to wake up to it three days from now. He’ll have to leave the tupperware his dad will bring back from sharing the fruits of his son’s labor with the office tonight on the counter to air out, but that’s something to worry about later. For now, there is a bidding war Stiles aims to win for a supply of mountain ash on Ebay.

He hadn’t believed Dr. Deaton a few weeks ago when the vet told him that was where he found most of his supplies, but that same night, Stiles had checked online, and sure enough, an almost infinitesimal set of sellers on the site dealt with the nearly non-existent market for materials meant for either combatting or healing the supernatural. It makes an odd sort of sense - if someone knows what to look for, then they will find it, and if not, then on a site like Ebay, which carries out thousands of deals on a daily basis, no one will be able to accidentally stumble upon the evidence of the supernatural world. Which is how, two weeks ago, he’d bought a small arsenal of several different species of wolfsbane, and the day before, he knew the moment the first bid for the mountain ash came up.

Whoever is fighting Stiles for that mountain ash - and it isn’t Dr. Deaton, because Stiles had called to ask before he ever placed a bid, which means he feels no guilt about deciding his need for the stuff takes more precedence over some unknown entity - needs to either be prepared to lose, or refreshing his page every few seconds, because the deal closes in less than thirty minutes, and Stiles plans to watch the bidding price right up until the end. Climbing up the stairs, he hums the Batman theme to himself, thumb tapping out the beat on the rail.

It’s when he stands in the doorway to his room that he realizes he is not as alone as he previously believed, and he blinks, surprised by his visitor for the evening. “This is new.”

Lifting his head from where he had apparently been smelling his pillow, Isaac looks up at him sheepishly. “Um, yeah. Hi, Stiles.” He rubs a rueful hand through his curls and then suggests, “I can go, if you want.”

Plopping himself in his computer chair, Stiles shakes his head and shrugs, trying to play this off as no big deal. “You’re not bothering me. I’m just gonna be on the computer, so you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” He turns to pull up the tab with what he wants, and then asks his unlikely companion, “Did you need something?”

It’s quiet for a while, and Stiles lets Isaac work up to it, sensing that whatever drove the other boy here is a sensitive topic, and oddly reluctant to send him off. He wasn’t lying when he said he isn’t bothered by Isaac’s presence - it’s nice simply having someone else with him, regardless of how out of the norm it might be. It could become normal, if they both wanted. Who knows? Maybe it will.

Finally, he hears Isaac swallow softly and then say, “It smells like Scott in here.”

Oh. “Oh. Uh - well, that makes sense, I guess. He’s slept here enough over the years, and his mom started making him keep clothes here after he came home messy a few too many times when we were younger.” Which Stiles will insist to his dying day was never actually his fault. Not that Mrs. McCall or any of the other concerned parties ever believe him. “Do you need to talk to him, or something?”

“Or something,” Isaac mumbles, before saying, “But this is good, for now if - if you don’t mind.” There’s something going on here that Stiles feels like he should understand already, something incredibly familiar about the way Isaac is acting, but it refuses to coalesce into an actual answer, staying instead on the fringes of his conscious mind (which, admittedly, might have something to do with how crowded his mind already is with other things, but that isn’t exactly anything new, so - it shouldn’t be this hard).

Before he can stop himself, he offers to let Isaac borrow one of Scott’s shirts. “He has his own drawer.” He points lazily toward the right one. “But you probably could have figured that out on your own, right?”

“Right. Um - and you’re sure that it’s alright?”

“Yeah, I mean, why wouldn’t it be?” There’s a reason, but like the other thing, it just isn’t coming, so Stiles is just going to pretend that all is right with the world, and the next time Scott comes over - whenever that will be, since he literally cannot remember the last time his friend was in his room - if Scott takes issue with it, he knows all the ways to wheedle his friend’s forgiveness out of him, and is fully prepared to not only take the blame for this, but to use those tactics shamelessly, because for whatever reason, Isaac is in his room, acting shy and timid and needy, all of which are things Stiles hasn’t seen in the guy since before he took the bite, and somehow it all comes back to Scott.

Instead of answering, Isaac asks another question. “Any idea where he is?”

Stiles actually knows exactly where Scott is.

Although things with Allison are still nowhere near perfect, they’re working on being friends, which is good for more than Scott’s control over his wolf. It’s allowing him to form something stronger than a temporary truce with her father, who is now the head of their entire clan of hunters - because apparently there’s far more to the Argent family than those aware of the supernatural in Beacon Hills have been led to believe up until now, and depending upon how things are handled, that could be great for everyone, or completely horrible. Considering the fact that where it counts, the natures of Chris and Scott’s personalities are actually far more similar than they are different, it seems likely that the relationship will prove a positive one, for which they should all be extremely grateful.

Stiles certainly is.

Right now, Scott is with Chris, discussing plans for dealing with the alpha pack, because Chris won’t talk to Derek or Peter - not that anyone could blame him, since the man isn’t holding a grudge, but he doesn’t trust either of them after everything that has happened, which ultimately is not all that different from how he felt about them before, but now it’s likely that his feelings will never change.

“He’s off being Mr. Diplomat,” which is still weird for Stiles to think about, since it’s _Scott_ , but whatever; they all have to mature at some point, “and discussing ways to keep the rest of the town from getting caught in our friendly neighborhood alpha pack’s crosshairs.”

Isaac makes a soft humming sound and then Stiles hears him rising from the bed and then opening what he assumes is Scott’s drawer. The drawer closes and there is a rustling of fabric, followed by the slight creaking that signals Isaac’s return to the bed.

After that, things are quiet, Stiles becoming so absorbed in his self-appointed mission that although he can sort of feel Isaac’s presence in the back of his mind, it is almost as though he forgets until fifteen minutes later, when he becomes the proud owner of ten pounds of mountain ash. He startles poor Isaac with a celebratory whoop, and proposes that he bake cookies and help him study for the chemistry final to make up for it (and also to help banish the sort of lost look Isaac has in his eyes, because it triggers something protective in Stiles that he typically only feels when his dad drinks a little too much or stays up too late and accidentally says something about his mom). Although Isaac assures him there is nothing to make up for, he accepts the offer and winds up watching him bake chocolate-chocolate chip cookies as he snuggles into one of Scott’s worn out and faded hoodies, every once in a while lifting his wrists to his nose and sniffing in a way that is somehow adorably delicate but at the same time indiscrete.

They eat the entire batch while studying moles and covalent bonds and memorizing the basic facts about the first sixteen elements on the periodic table until they’re both nodding over their textbooks, and then Stiles selects a toothbrush out of the pack of what was originally ten at the local Dollar Tree and gives it to Isaac, completely bypassing any discussion over whether or not he will be staying the night, and they take turns getting ready for bed. It’s almost summer, and Stiles is a little concerned that Isaac will burn up wearing Scott’s hoodie while he sleeps, but Isaac simply takes off his jeans and forgoes getting under the covers. It shouldn’t be so easy, falling asleep lying next to someone who, until today, he has barely spent any time with outside of school and life-endangering situations, but it is, and the two of them are out not long after laying their heads upon the pillow.

In the morning, Stiles makes apple turnovers, which the two of them eat their way through on the way to school. Before Isaac parts ways with him to head to his own locker, Stiles puts a hand on his arm. “If you want to come over for dinner tonight, I’m making meatloaf.”

“Won’t your dad be there?” Isaac fiddles with the edge of the royal blue t-shirt he pulled out of Scott’s drawer earlier in the morning, since Stiles convinced him that Scott wouldn’t mind. He couldn’t exactly let him go around in yesterday’s clothing, could he?

“Yeah, but I mean, it’ll be fine. Trust me, most of the time, my dad is like a big teddy bear. Grumbly, but generally harmless and prone to giving bear hugs.”

Scott shoots Stiles a confused, slightly disbelieving look as soon as he sees Isaac wearing one of his shirts during chemistry, but then they have to take their final, and there really isn’t ever a good time for the two of them to talk about it, even at lacrosse practice that afternoon, since Scott has taken Stiles’ spot on the bench. Jackson must smell Scott and Stiles all over Isaac, because he keeps sending curious glances between the three of them, but thankfully nothing ever comes of that, either. The lack of questions is bound to come to an end eventually - especially since they have a pack meeting scheduled for Friday night, which is in two days, but at least they don’t have to deal with it right now.

That night, his dad takes one look at the nervous kid leaning against the island in his kitchen, and raises his eyebrows at Stiles. Stiles shrugs eloquently, and so the good sheriff decides to take it in stride, welcoming Isaac to the Stilinski home. He still feels like the kid got a raw deal when he was taken in for questioning about his father’s murder, and if this is an opportunity to help make up for that somewhat, then he isn’t about to take it for granted. After that, Isaac relaxes marginally, and the night goes on in relative ease, the two boys retreating to study with a plate of freshly baked brownies - of which Stiles only allows his dad to take one.

They fall into a pattern over the next few days. Stiles will drop Isaac off at the Hale house to check in with Derek and Peter, who are overseeing the reconstruction, and then Isaac will make his way to the Stilinski home, where Stiles is somewhere in the process of making dinner and the sheriff is either looking at a case or doing paperwork. Somewhere along the way, they eat, Stiles bakes, and then studying happens. On Thursday night, Stiles bids on a few more pounds of powdered wolfsbane, and promises Isaac that no, it is not meant for anyone in the Hale pack - except maybe Peter, when Stiles is having a particularly bad day. But most likely not.

Having someone to take care of helps Stiles more than he anticipated when he first set out to get rid of some of Isaac’s leanness through home cooked meals and baked goods and sleepovers which have somehow progressed to snuggling. It gives him something to focus on when strategizing and studying are not enough, as well as someone to talk to while his dad works late hours, and soothes an emptiness which he had been aware of for a while, but uncertain how to handle, because Stiles may not ever have had many friends - for the longest time, it was just Scott - but he is a social creature, and living inside his own head for so many weeks has not been healthy.

More than that though, Isaac seems more content than he has in all the time Stiles can remember knowing him, and Stiles would like to keep him that way. This is why, on Friday morning, Stiles corners Scott in the parking lot after sending Isaac on into the building, and asks Scott for a favor which is not, in fact, among the top ten weirdest things he has ever requested from his best friend. Seriously. There is a list, and this does not even come close to making it.

“So, could you maybe bring me some of your old clothes when you come to the pack meeting tonight?”

Scott takes his time looking up from where he had been securing his bike to the bike rack. “I think you mean could I bring _Isaac_ some of my old clothes, but yeah, I guess.”

Fidgeting, Stiles bobs his head and rubs the hand not holding onto his book bag over the back of his neck. “Thanks, man.”

“Look, Stiles, I don’t know what is going on, but you would tell me if there was something I needed to know, right?” Uhg. This is the reason he wanted to avoid this conversation until he couldn’t anymore. And it’s just so confusing, because Scott is looking at him in that earnest way that says, _I’m here for you, and I love and accept you, bro_ , that Stiles hasn’t had directed at him in such a long time, and he has _no idea_ why Scott is choosing to use it now, of all times. Stiles is fine. Good. Great, actually. There is nothing new about Stiles to support or accept.

“Um, always, buddy.” He huffs a disarming laugh and then carries on, because apparently this is something Scott needs to hear, and Stiles has quickly resigned himself to not understanding the reason for it. Among the first rules of being friends with Scott is accepting the fact that nine times out of ten, Scott’s reasoning only makes sense in his own head, because the guy was just born seeing the world a bit differently than the other six billion anthropoidal members of its population. “You know me - I tend to overshare. It’s kinda my thing.”

After eying Stiles for a bit longer, as though searching for a sign that he is holding something back - which, really, that’s so unnecessary at this point, since all Scott needs to do in order to verify something someone says is listen their old ticker for a few beats - Scott nods and changes the subject after uttering a tentative, “Yeah, okay.”

When school lets out for the weekend, Stiles drives the familiar route to the Hale house, and promises Isaac that he will be back in an hour and a half for the meeting. There is a package at his front door when he gets out of the Jeep, and he may or may not pump his fists in victory, because that came just in time for tonight.

According to Dr. Deaton, it is possible to control which supernatural beings mountain ash guards against; it all comes down to intent and force of will. Stiles has plans for that if he can actually get it to work - which it should, since getting the mountain ash to work at all is the hard part. He believes that it works now, so he should be able to believe other things about it, as well, and what better way to test himself than against an entire pack of werewolves?

He brings the box into the house and deposits it in his room to mess with after he finishes making the spicy chicken casserole he started working on last night, along with the ginger-apricot muffins which he suspects he will spend half the meeting defending from all the bottomless pits in the pack. Except for Isaac. Isaac can have all the muffins he wants.


	2. Let's talk about the awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some of you may have already noticed, this fic is going to be slightly longer than I originally intended. However, I am buckling down and refusing to make it more than four chapters. The plot bunny can just deal with it.
> 
> I can't tell you how much I appreciate the way the first chapter was received, and I hope this chapter and the two after this continue to capture your interest. Thanks for all the kudos and the super sweet reviews.

Stiles places the dishes for the pack meeting into the backseat of his Jeep and then heads back inside to deal with the mountain ash. He measures out enough for a small circle, wanting to ration his supply until he can buy more, and siphons it off into a small sandwich bag. Rooting around in his closet, he finds an old messenger bag that is no longer big enough to contain the books and supplies he needs for school, and puts the bag of mountain ash in, hoping to at least slightly reduce the strength of the scent. He washes his hands twice before leaving the house for the evening, wondering if it will even make a bit of difference.

The thing about mountain ash is that it is primarily meant to be used as a form of protection. What happened with Gerard is not the norm. It takes a special sort of perspective, a specific understanding of the workings of the supernatural world, for someone to effectively use mountain ash, which is one of the reasons it is not more widely used among the hunter community, yet is preferred by people like Dr. Deaton, who ally with or advise the beings hunters are sworn to defend the rest of the world against. Still, the possession of a substance which can be used against werewolves is more than enough to set them on edge, especially in this climate which breeds the mentality of attacking first and asking questions later, and Stiles wonders more than once on the way to the Hale house if he shouldn’t have handled this differently.

There is an instantly recognizable figure waiting for him outside the house when Stiles pulls up. His arms are crossed, and while someone else might mistake that as a sign of anger - especially since only a few short months ago, Stiles would have thought the same - at this point he knows that Derek is simply concerned. If anyone else arrived on the Hale property reeking of mountain ash the way that Stiles does right now, things would get ugly faster than the human mind can process, even with the burst of adrenaline which would no doubt coarse through one’s system at the sight of a transformed alpha werewolf coming straight toward the intruder without any regard for his own safety, bent on protecting his pack and his territory. Isaac is nowhere in sight, and Stiles has a feeling Derek sent him out for a run with Peter as soon as the scent of the mountain ash wafted from the Jeep toward their sensitive noses.

Stiles takes his time parking and sliding the messenger bag containing the offending substance over one shoulder, not wanting to seem anxious or guilty and risk agitating Derek further. He takes the casserole and the muffins out of the backseat and heads for the door. Derek turns to accompany him when Stiles comes within five feet, and silently demands an explanation. Instead of answering straight away, Stiles goes toward the recently finished kitchen and sets his burdens down as Derek watches him from the entrance.

Bracing his hands on the white granite counter behind him, Stiles leans back, not out of insouciance, but as a sign that he has nothing to hide. “I’ve been talking to Dr. Deaton a lot, lately. We’ve been discussing some ideas for how I can to contribute to the pack.” Derek nods, unsurprised and accepting, though there is still a hint of tension in the way he holds himself. Taking it all in, Stiles chews his bottom lip and then offers, “Look, the next time I decide to try something new, I’ll call first.” That makes the last of Derek’s misgivings fade away, which in turn makes Stiles appreciate how far the two of them have come recently. He isn’t sure if it boils down to the way Stiles showed up with Lydia on the night that everything came to a head with Gerard, or if it is a dozen similar actions on his part, or even the little things Stiles does now to take care of the pack, but he knows that if he and Derek ever wind up in a situation reminiscent of their time spent in the Beacon Hills High School pool again, there will be no talk of mistrust. They both know at this point that although he gets scared, although he often hates the things he has to do in order to keep the people he cares about safe, Stiles is committed to this path as surely as if he had accepted Peter’s offer of the bite months ago, possibly more committed, even, since the bonds he feels with the people in this pack are strengthened by his own heart, rather than the indefinable and sometimes changeable connection between wolves bitten or born into a pack.

He wants to keep these people safe, and in the end, Stiles thinks that will make all the difference.

Derek comes forward, away from the kitchen entrance, his stride slow and steady and doubtlessly matching the increasing ease of his pulse in the steadily calming atmosphere. “What did you have in mind?”

\---

“Really think about that before you go through with it, because if you steal one of those muffins right now, Jackson, you won’t be getting any for dessert.” There’s a muffled curse from behind his back as Stiles continues pulling down more plates and cups from the cabinets above the kitchen counter. Of all the traits he inherited from his mother, Stiles thinks he appreciates having eyes in the back of his head the most, especially for moments such as this.

He has to be able to keep all of the werewolves in his life on their toes somehow.

“Seriously? You’re not even a werewolf! And you’re not supposed to play favorites, Stilinski. Don’t think we can’t smell the muffin you let Isaac have before the rest of us got here. Just because the two of you are screwing -”

Whirling around, Stiles nearly drops the cups in his hands, fumbling and saving them from meeting the floor, but stumbling a bit after taking his focus away from his own gangly limbs. Two steady hands help him regain his equilibrium and then remain, and Stiles spares Derek a glance in thanks before he sets about refuting the frankly ridiculous accusation which prompted his graceless maneuver in the first place. “Excuse me? Isaac and I are _what?_ ” He scoffs and goes on, glad that Isaac decided to wait for Scott on the edge of the Hale property after he and Peter finally came in from their run around the perimeter, when, yes, Stiles allowed him to have a muffin. He’d much rather dispel the rumors without subjecting Isaac to this mortification, too. “Dude, we’re not sleeping with each other - well, we are, but not the way you apparently think we are. We’re friends, and we’re pack members. Shocking as this may seem to you, not every relationship is about sex.”

Jackson tears his eyes away from the steadily pulsing carotid artery, his eyes wide. “You’re serious. Then what the hell is he doing wearing McCall’s clothes?” He swallows and glances at the other betas gathered in the kitchen, and Boyd and Erica look every bit as surprised by this as he is. “We thought he was wearing them to cover up the fact that you two have been all over each other lately.”

“The fact that you all are even discussing our non-existent sex life is just - there are no words.” He shakes his head, grimacing and mentally denouncing werewolves at large. When did privacy become a myth? “And what would be the point of covering my scent up with Scott’s?”

“Well,” Erica starts, looking first at Derek, and then at him, uncertainly (She’s been uncertain about a lot of things lately, and it all stems from the fact that she convinced Boyd to abandon the pack and everything that happened to the two of them after, both at the hands of the hunters and the alpha pack. Stiles decides to pull her aside after the meeting tonight, because she can’t keep feeling so guilty all the time for doing something so natural as fearing for her life, and the life of her mate, when the important thing is that they ultimately decided to come back.), “Scott is a werewolf.”

And werewolves are incredibly tactile. Even in the early days, when Derek couldn’t stand Stiles, and barely tolerated Scott, he had constantly gotten into their personal space, because whether he liked them or not, he had decided to take Scott - and by extension, Stiles - under his wing. Were Isaac and Stiles involved, using Scott as a replacement for fabric softener might not have been a terrible plan, since Stiles and Scott tend to smell significantly of each other no matter what they do at this point, after so many years of living out of each other’s back pockets, and it wouldn’t be weird for Scott to share enough contact with another werewolf in the pack that they would be covered in his scent - especially not Isaac, since Scott seems to touch him at every opportunity when the two of them are together, though Stiles is pretty sure Scott doesn’t realize it.

All of the weird glances and supportive comments his best friend has given Stiles over the last few days are making a whole lot more sense now, and it kind of makes him want to bash his head against the counter. Except that he can’t, because Derek still has his hands on him, and Stiles doesn’t want to do anything to make him let go - which is a concept that bears further examination at a later date, when he isn’t surrounded by beings capable of discerning his every physiological response. Instead, he stares down at the glasses in his hands as though they hold the secrets of the universe, and bites his lip.

He is saved from having to think of anything to say by the arrival of Lydia, whose presence fills up the kitchen as it does whatever room she chooses to occupy, and she comes over to help him finish gathering utensils, prompting Derek to finally take his hands back.

Mere minutes after, Isaac and Scott wander in, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. There is a light in Isaac’s eyes that isn’t normally there, and it strengthens with every glance at his companion, who smiles that carefree, sunny smile Stiles has seen nearly every day since he and his mom came to Beacon Hills to get away from Jason McCall, seemingly oblivious to the effect he is having.

Then everyone crowds around, wanting their dinner, and Stiles has to shoo them all away until he has enough room to serve Derek up a plate. He doesn’t miss the startled look the alpha sends him, but Stiles shrugs it off. So, he’s been researching pack dynamics lately - it isn’t a big deal. He has no plans to follow them to the letter, but he feels like acknowledging Derek’s position in relation to the rest of the pack, at least, is something important. He calls Isaac forward next, and things carry on as usual from there, though he winds up fielding some odd looks for his continued preferential treatment. Derek doesn’t seem bothered by it, and considering this is his pack, he is ultimately the only one who could convince Stiles to stop.

Once everyone has a plate, they get down to business. Scott talks about his most recent meetings with Chris Argent, and Lydia and Jackson talk about how things have been going in terms of strengthening his control. Derek and Peter share more of what they know about the alpha pack - which admittedly, is not much, nor is it at all encouraging. They are the boogeyman of the werewolf world, waiting to swoop in when an alpha is at his weakest. The werewolves in the pack’s ranks constantly undergo change, with some leaving to start their own packs, others dying because of infighting, and even more dying in conflicts with other packs, because alphas may be stronger, but they are not immortal, and the risks the alpha pack takes with their own lives constantly put them in danger. According to Derek, they are the reason he and Laura fled the state after the fire.

“So, why isn’t this place claimed in the name of their big bad alpha pack already?” He almost opts not to ask, but does it all the same. Stiles may not want to know the answer, but he does want to understand the way the alpha pack thinks. The more they know about the inner workings of this new threat, the better they will be able to handle it when they finally decide to stop toying with them and strike.

“Isn’t it obvious? In order to claim Beacon Hills as their territory, they have to kill the alpha, and these werewolves are lazy. They have so much power that they aren’t used to having to work for what they want; they simply waltz in and take it. Chasing after two frightened young werewolves would have been far too tedious for them.” Stiles doesn’t understand how everyone else can listen to Peter’s voice and not feel the need to take a shower, but the only one aside from him who reacts to the former alpha at all is Lydia, and she hides it well. The only reason Stiles sees the slight stiffening of her shoulders is because he is looking for it.

Then, Stiles cannot think about his or anyone else’s discomfort, because the implications behind Peter’s words are starting to sink in. The alpha pack has set its sights on Beacon Hills. In order to claim Beacon Hills as part of the alpha pack’s territory, the local alpha will have to die. His eyes snap to Derek, horrified. Derek catches him staring, and he nods, resigned to the fact that his uncle has once again done something to stir up trouble within the pack. “So, now you know.”

“Know what?”

Before Stiles - or even Lydia, who also looks as though she is about to speak - can answer Isaac’s question, Boyd tells him, in a soft voice that somehow still feels too loud in the terrifying stillness that has taken over the kitchen, “The alpha pack wants Derek dead.”

Isaac lets out what, to Stiles’ human ears, is a nearly inaudible whine, and Scott puts an arm around him automatically, bringing him close to his side. Everyone else is still frozen, trying to deal with this new understanding of the world. It is not the concept of one of them dying that has them paralyzed, not really. At one point or another this year, each one of them has been confronted by his or her own mortality. It is the fact that they have a name, a specific person to fear for now, and it is the fact that that person is their alpha, the one they look to for protection and guidance, even if they often do not like the forms his responses take and choose to find another way.

Stiles looks around at each of the others gathered in the kitchen, taking in the varying degrees of stress and uncertainty, and feels the overwhelming urge to _do something_. He made a promise to himself, sitting alone and aching in his room after his dad told him he was a hero, that he would never sit back and do nothing when the people he cares about are in distress. Setting his mostly-finished plate down, he walks over to the cabinet where he stashed his messenger bag earlier, slings it back over his shoulder, and then turns to catch Derek’s gaze again, raising his eyebrows significantly. “Why don’t we try this out now?”


	3. Power in the palm of my hand and the shadows of my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles sets his plans into motion, and things turn out rather different than he expects.
> 
> Because this is his life, and that's just how it tends to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, wow, it's been a while. Sorry about that - the first two weeks of a semester are always a bit of an adjustment period.
> 
> I think this may be the first time for me to write Lydia with dialogue in a fic (which is crazy, since I've written a fair amount for this fandom at this point, and actually wrote a short piece solely focused on her character). She's such a fascinating character, and I find the nuances in her personality and as a foil for Stiles really intriguing, which made me sort of wary of writing her for quite a while.
> 
> Most of this chapter was written while listening to Fever Ray's _When I Grow Up_ , which you can find here on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F-CpE73o2M&feature=related

Spring-softened moonlight slides over his skin, stirred ever-so-slightly by a gentle breeze. Loamy earth sinks with every careful footstep. Fifteen feet away, there is an owl observing his strange occupation with a wide-eyed air of burgeoning scholarly curiosity. Six inches away, Lydia Martin watches him work under a veneer of detached interest. The bottom lip she has been worrying for the last minute tells a different story.

An inch from completing the circle, her hand shoots out to catch his wrist, stilling him and pulling his eyes up from the ground. “Are you sure you want to do this, Stiles?”

He examines her for a moment, forcing himself to think before he reacts. It is a new skill he has been working on, but a necessary one. Lydia Martin might be terrifying in her own right, but eventually she will forgive him for whatever spills out of his mouth in a moment of inattention. The alphas, however, are not likely to give him the benefit of the doubt before introducing him to their claws and their teeth. Thankfully, one of the few benefits of his constantly firing synapses is that people rarely notice a lapse in conversation as he tries to navigate his way around whatever problems present themselves.

A heartbeat later, instead of blurting out, ‘Am I sure I want to do whatever it takes to protect this pack?’ which was his gut reaction, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“I mean have you thought about what will happen when this works?” Her eyebrows are raised expectantly. In the time since she and Jackson have become voluntarily involved in the supernatural events surrounding Beacon Hills, she has grown accustomed to Stiles being the one to reach the same conclusions, or to debate the ones she has drawn, long before anyone else. He wonders briefly when he stopped seeing that as a sign that they were meant for each other, and started seeing it for what it truly is: an asset to the pack, and a unique facet to their gradually deepening friendship.

Thinking her question over, he sighs and rubs the hand not holding the last pinches of mountain ash down the back of his neck. “There is a very real chance that Jackson and Boyd are going to kill me for separating them from you and Erica, and that it will not be done with mercy.” Shrugging, he amends, “Then again, that depends on them actually being able get to me. Once I finish my own circle, I may just decide not to come back out.”

There’s a light in her eyes that Stiles cannot interpret when she replies, “If that’s the case, it really isn’t Jackson and Boyd you should be worried about.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he demands, cocking his head to the side and willing her to make some sort of sense. Whatever she’s trying to say clearly has some sort of logic behind it, since - well - it’s Lydia. The girl lives and breathes logic. Unfortunately, that fact is not at all helpful in this moment.

When she merely shakes her head and tells him, “You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure,” he sighs and completes her circle, twisting his fingers together to let out that last bit of ash.

He has his own carefully rationed mountain ash in a separate sandwich bag, stowed away in the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, along with the three other sandwich bags which are now empty. When he first let everyone in on the plan, convincing Erica and Isaac to stand in circles of the very material which briefly kept them trapped at the rave took some serious smooth-talking and multiple reassurances that this time, they will be able to walk out whenever they want, before they would agree to go through with it; although for the exercise to truly be a success, he’s hoping they will choose to stay within their circles at least until another werewolf from the pack has tried to cross the barrier. Stiles considers himself lucky that the two of them are already slightly more inclined than the others to listen to what he says, because otherwise, he doesn’t see how this experiment would ever get off the ground.

“Fine, whatever, don’t tell me. I’ll see you when all of this is over - you know, if I make it out alive,” he calls to her as he backs away, heading toward the location he has had picked out for himself since he first hatched his plan over a week ago. Lydia waves him off, not even bothering to dignify his parting remark with a response, and settles in to wait.

Seeing her retreat into her own thoughts, Stiles turns and starts off in earnest, wanting to bring his plan to fruition some time before the sun tries to peek out from the trees. By his watch, it is only a few minutes after eleven, but time always seems to do strange things in this forest. Whether that is merely his own perception playing tricks on him, or there truly is something different here, is difficult to determine, especially in a world where so much of the truth depends on individual interpretation - such as the mountain ash.

He picks his way through the trees slowly and deliberately, feeling keenly the distance from anyone with reflexes quick enough to prevent him from doing himself serious harm should some stray log or stubborn stone take advantage of his somewhat questionable grace. Off to the left, two pinpricks of light peer at him from a little hollow in the ground. He vaguely makes out a small snout, and sends a snappy salute to the fox even as he hears the first faint trickles of the creek he seeks up ahead. He must be disturbing the little guy’s rest. He would feel worse about it, but he has a feeling its bigger and more dangerous cousins will be coming this way soon enough.

Crossing the creek with extra caution, he listens to the calm cadence of the babbling water over the rocky bed even as he searches out a good patch of earth. A few feet from the edge of the water, he sees a bit of dry, flat ground about two feet in diameter, and he makes for it even as he roots through his messenger bag for the mountain ash.

Emptying out the little sandwich bag into the palm of his left hand, he takes a deep breath and lets it fall, turning until the dark line meets itself on the other end. He seals the sandwich bag back up and places it with the others, and then he situates himself on the ground, knees pulled up to his chest. Closing his eyes, he wonders briefly if he shouldn’t simply call the whole thing off, thinking back to Lydia’s cryptic message, then shrugs it off. After all, what’s life without a little risk? Mentally facepalming at using _Sirius Black_ as a role model for sensible life choices, even if he did choose to run with a werewolf - or possibly because of that - he pushes all his doubts aside and wills the four circles located throughout the Hale property to come to life.

Seconds later, a series of blood-chilling howls force his eyes to snap open, and he knows two things: first, that the mountain ash is definitely working; second, that he is completely, utterly screwed.

He expected Jackson and Boyd to be pissed. That isn’t surprising in the least. What has his heart rate rising and his eyes flicking nervously around the surrounding trees and the open span of the creek is that there were two other howls, and he _knows_ those voices, knows them as well as he knows his dad’s, even altered as they have been by the shift.

How long does he have before a handful of enraged werewolves burst out at him? The trail of his scent should be mixed with those of the others separated from the pack, which will lead them on a merry chase for a little while, but eventually, it will bring them here, even though the mountain ash should obscure the worst of it. That might actually be worse, since the moment it breaks off will serve as a glaring ‘x’ marks the spot. Or would that be ‘o’ in this case, all things considered?

Remembering his joke about simply staying in his circle, Stiles wonders if that might not be the best idea he has had all night. A minute later, his phone _buzzes_ in his pocket, and he pulls it out with slightly jerky movements. “What’s up?”

 _”Hey, Stiles, can I step out now?”_ Isaac sounds more than a little freaked, and small wonder. There are snarls and growls coming through that are definitely not his, and Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at it briefly.

Returning it to its previous spot, he tells him, “Sure, buddy, if you feel like that’s what you need to do. Why, what’s going on?”

_”Tell you later, alright? I just stepped out and I - I have to go.”_

“Wait - Isaac, what -” It doesn’t matter what he says, because the line is already dead on the other end. He grits his teeth and puts his phone back in his pocket, then starts gnawing on the thumbnail of his other hand.

Moments later, he spares a thought to be glad that his phone is no longer in his hand, fairly certain that if it had been, his flailing limbs would have sent it straight into the creek. There are only so many mishaps that he can explain away before his dad stops buying him a new phone, and Stiles without a phone is Stiles without freedom, since he and his dad cannot communicate without them, their schedules being what they are. The rest of his attention is focused on the dark shape barreling toward him, so much larger than his fox friend. Closer and closer it comes, red eyes boring into his own, right up until it reaches the delineation of the mountain ash, and howls furiously at its thwarted trajectory.

He stares at the figure which in other circumstances, Stiles would describe as majestic, with its glossy black fur, long snout, and powerful fore and hind legs. The image is ruined by the sprawl it landed in seconds before, though it is working now to regain some of its dignity, coming to a stand.

“Derek?” It must be Derek, but this is the first time he has ever seen the young alpha in full form, and this beautiful beast is so far removed from what Peter Hale once appeared as to seem a different species entirely.

Whining, Derek comes forward and gazes at him forlornly. He comes as close to the mountain ash as he dares, clearly unwilling to experience the rude welcoming from before.

Stiles looks right back at him, biting his lip in indecision. Isaac has already proven that the mountain ash can be manipulated to work against certain wolves, and not against others, so really, the experiment is done, isn’t it? What would be the harm in breaking the circle now? If Derek is here, then Boyd and Jackson won’t stand a chance, and they should be so preoccupied with their mates that Stiles does not even register on their radars, right? A second, even more plaintive whine is all it takes for him to unfold his limbs and break the barrier, opening his arms to let Derek come as close as he wishes.

He winds up with a furry head and slightly moist snout nuzzling his neck, and his lap full of giant wolf. Running his hands down the powerful length of Derek’s back, his fingers sliding through slightly coarse fur, he asks, “You alright there, big guy?”

He gets a huff and the lap of a tongue along his jawline, causing him to let out a laugh, though he resists the urge to rear back and away, certain that such a response would be poorly met at the moment.

“Tell you what, the next time I set up a barrier, you can have an all-access pass. No more keeping you away from all this awesomeness, since it’s clearly too much for you to handle.” A gentle tug at his ear in retaliation, and he mutters a soft, “Hey! No biting the Stiles,” but resumes his petting, since it seems to be helping bring Derek back from whatever bad place being unable to reach Stiles sent him to earlier.

They stay there on the forest floor, curled around each other and taking in the peace of their little creek for what seems an age, but is probably only about thirty minutes. Eventually, though, Derek pulls away and tugs on the neck of his shirt, urging Stiles to get his butt in gear. “You know, when I said, ‘No biting the Stiles,’ that included his clothing. Just in case you were wondering.” He gets a wolf-grin and a lolling tongue for his troubles, and Stiles sighs, climbing to his feet. “Come on then. Let's go get you some clothes so you don’t give Erica and Lydia something to giggle about when you change back.” _That_ would definitely serve to ruffle Boyd and Jackson’s fur. Although making Derek the target of their collective ire might not be the worst idea. Eying Derek speculatively, he rolls the thought around before rejecting it. He doesn’t _want_ the others ogling Derek in his human form.

As if sensing the change in the tenor of his thoughts, Derek’s head butts gently against his thigh, and Stiles reaches down to tangle his fingers through the fur at his nape. They set off towards the house this way, Derek helping to guide his human companion along the safest path. For once, Stiles feels no need to let his mouth run away with itself, his mind soothed by the presence of the wolf at his side. He always feels safe with Derek these days, but there is a lack of pressure, of expectation, with his more lupine nature brought so firmly into focus. 

They reach the perimeter of the house, and Stiles finds himself growing tense again. Derek nudges him again, and Stiles bites his lip before sighing to try and loosen the coil in his chest. They’ve got this. Or, at the very least, Derek does.

Together, they step out of the trees and into the clearing surrounding the Hale house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have a tumblr now, so if anyone has a quip, query, quote, or quibble, you can find and follow me here: http://pixiethisisnotmybeautifulhouse.tumblr.com/


	4. Moved by you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, it feels like things might be okay - sure, the alpha pack is coming, but everything else? Finally seems to be falling into place.
> 
> It's a good feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this chapter took way longer to get out than I was expecting, mostly because college is a pain in the rear and although the next chapter is going to be exactly how I expected, this one took some unexpected turns.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and for the comments everyone left on the previous chapter.
> 
> The song this chapter is named after is _Everything_ , by Lifehouse. It definitely fits the tone toward the end of this chapter, so if you're the kind of person who likes tunes while reading fics, that's the one I would recommend for latter half. For the first part? Barcelona's _The Takers_ might work.

Pregnant silence seeps from every hollow and hideaway. There is a shocking dearth of wolves charging forth to extract adrenaline-driven apologies. Letting out a breath he was not previously aware he had been holding, Stiles takes in the vacant area surrounding the house before glancing down at his companion. Red eyes, intent upon the imposing house up ahead, belie the impression of security and isolation. Reminding himself that the others will be able to scent his apprehension, Stiles does his best to shake it off, and the two of them continue on toward the porch.

Shifting his messenger bag more comfortably on his shoulder, he proceeds to open the door at a pace that is neither too eager nor too reluctant, determined to appear as unaffected as possible. His efforts may be an exercise in futility, but until someone informs him of this fact outright, he opts to maintain his illusion of nonchalance. After all, the adage, “fake it ‘til you make it,” has practically become his mantra since he and Scott became so ensnared in all of Beacon Hills’ supernatural intrigue.

He holds the door open for Derek and follows immediately after, taking in the empty entryway. Then Derek leads the way toward the kitchen, and Stiles has to purse his lips at the scene before them to keep from showing his relief. Jackson leans possessively against the counter where the remaining muffins sit, the container considerably less burdened than it was before they all set out for the woods earlier in the night. In one hand, he has the bottom half of a muffin, and his other rests on Lydia’s waist.

Erica lounges on the island, somehow managing to make the action look comfortable, and Boyd stands between her legs, his hands on her thighs. The two of them look away from each other briefly to acknowledge Stiles and Derek’s arrival, then fall back into their own little world, and Stiles finds it remarkably easy to ignore them, considering how concerned he was moments before about Boyd’s reaction. He should have known the steadfast beta would be able to rationalize everything once he had Erica back within reach. The true threat to his continued existence is munching insolently on the rest of his pilfered baked good.

Stiles takes his life into his own hands, calling him out on it. “You know, the rest of those were supposed to be breakfast for Derek and whoever else decided to crash here for the next few _days_.”

Staring him down as he swallows, Jackson raises his eyebrows, distinctly unmoved. “You’re just lucky tonight isn’t a full moon, Stilinski, otherwise this,” he holds up the now-empty muffin cup significantly,” would be the least of your problems. Besides, Derek’s a big boy. He can go to the grocery store and buy a box of Pop-tarts like everyone else.”

A low growl draws Jackson’s haughty eyes down toward his alpha’s, and it doesn’t take any amount of intelligence to be able to read the promise of violence in that crimson gaze, which is good news for cocky young werewolves everywhere. Breaking eye-contact in an abrupt, openly submissive gesture, Jackson opts to examine the gleaming panels of the new hardwood floor.  
Stiles manfully resists the need to capitalize on Jackson’s misfortune. He can have a good laugh over it later on, when it’s just him and - “Hey, where are Scott and Isaac? They should have been back by now.” Actually, Isaac should have been back before everyone else, since he was fairly close to the house. Remembering the sounds that had come through while they were on the phone, he starts to worry all over again, silently berating himself for becoming so distracted by Derek. When no one says anything, the panic really starts to set in, and he looks around at all of them, wondering why no one else seems bothered. “Guys, what if something’s really wrong? Isaac didn’t exactly sound like Mr. Cool and Collected on the phone earlier, and I haven’t heard anything from Scott. We should probably -”

“Wait for the happy couple to grace us with their presence?” Stiles cannot help it, and neither can Lydia. They both wince at Peter’s sudden entrance. Stiles feels Derek rubbing his head against his thigh in reassurance, and he relaxes his taut frame. He should have expected Peter to pop out at some point - he often remarks upon Derek’s fondness for dramatic entrances, but the elder Hale possesses a similar proclivity, made all the more unnerving by his initial gruesome emergence from the permanent ward at the hospital onto the Beacon Hills scene.

“What do you mean?” He wishes he could come across as authoritative right now, but after the last few hours of alternating between anxiety and relief, all Stiles can manage is to sound exhausted and resigned.

Ever self-satisfied, Peter gazes over at him from where he now relaxes against the frame of the kitchen door, his arms crossed comfortably, every line of his body assured. “Why, Scott and Isaac, of course. I’d imagine that being unable to reach Isaac for the short amount of time he went along with your little experiment was enough to finally force Scott to listen to his instincts for once, instead of clinging to his non-existent future with the young Argent girl.”

Stiles knows he’s gaping. He also knows there is very little he can do about that fact. Because how could he have missed this? Thinking back to the first night Isaac spent snuggled up in his best friend’s clothes, and all the other nights in between, about the way Isaac sometimes stares after Scott like he is watching half of himself walking away, he feels like the most oblivious idiot ever to walk the face of the earth - which is truly saying something, considering the company Stiles keeps. Then again, if Peter’s words are to be trusted, Scott has been every bit as oblivious. He even seemed _happy_ for Stiles and Isaac when he thought the two of them were together. Is it possible for a werewolf to suppress his instincts so completely that he does not even recognize his mate?

Considering how long it took Scott to admit how much he needs to be a part of Derek’s pack - for real, and not because of some endgame known only to himself and Dr. Deaton - it isn’t that far out of the realm of possibility. Not that far at all.

“So, the noises I heard on the phone when I was talking to Isaac - that was all Scott?” That’s a relief, at least. He’d been worried that one or more of the alphas had decided to breach the preserve. Thinking about it now, though, there’s no way Isaac would have wanted to _leave_ the protection of the mountain ash if it was the only thing standing between him and a fight he almost certainly would not win. Isaac has shown on more than one occasion that he is loyal and brave to a fault, but that does not mean he will purposely seek out something more powerful without the promise of backup.

Peter’s lips slip slowly up into a smug smile that Stiles would love nothing more than to punch, despite knowing that the act would result in more pain for him than for Peter, because even the small chance of destroying that look for the fraction of a second it would take for Peter to grab him by the throat is almost irresistible. Only the fur Stiles still has between his fingers and under his palm, only the heat of lithe body beneath, keeps him from following through with the reckless impulse. One of these days, though.

One of these days... but not right now.

“Why don’t you ask them?” Peter suggests. “They’re coming through the front door as I speak.”

The proof of Peter’s words stumbles amiably through the kitchen doorway moments later, arms around each other’s waists, dopey, ridiculously soft smiles on both their faces. The other werewolves scrunch their noses up at whatever scent must be coming off of the pair (Stiles knows _exactly_ what they’re smelling with their super snouts, but he honestly does not want to think about Scott and Isaac’s newly established love life any more than is absolutely necessary. He’s loved Scott since the guy shared his marshmallows with Stiles during the first lunch of the spring semester of first grade, when he and his mom had moved to Beacon Hills. As for Isaac - Stiles is starting to feel responsible for him, for his safety and his happiness. He imagines this must be sort of what it’s like to have a younger sibling, and he has no desire whatsoever to be privy to his little brother’s proclivities, thanks.), and Stiles rolls his eyes at the leaves and twigs tangled up in their blatantly disheveled hair. Could they _be_ any more obvious right now? Remembering the days when everything with Allison had been sunshine and roses, Stiles admits that yes, they could, and he fervently hopes the two of them never actually reach that point.

He glances back down at the alpha werewolf by his side, catching him in the act of rolling his eyes, as well, and then decides he has had about as much fun as he can stand for the night. “Right, well, I have a fully wolfed-out alpha to square away. Lydia, I’m counting on you to keep everyone in line while we’re gone.” Because Peter _won’t_ , and Lydia may seem like a diminutive human on the outside, but she is more of a wolf than any of them on the inside.

He turns to exit the kitchen and make the journey up to Derek’s room, calling back, “I better come back to find the kitchen in one piece, or I won’t cook for you guys for a week.” Derek growls in solidarity as the kitchen door closes behind them, but once they reach the stairs, he snuffles at Stiles, amused by his attempts to keep the pack in line. Although threatening to withhold his culinary skills might prove more effective than anything else either of them have come up with so far.

At the top of the stairs, they take a right, stopping at the first door. When the renovations had finished, Derek had informed the others that they could have any room on the second floor - any room but the one closest to the stairs. This room, he claimed for himself, wanting to be the first one to respond in the event that someone tried to invade what he hoped everyone would eventually begin to consider home. For the most part, his desire has come to fruition, though there are, of course, a few holdouts. Jackson and Lydia would move in and never go back to their respective homes, but eventually their parents would start making noise about never seeing their children. The same goes for Boyd and Erica, who now cling to the pack in their own way, the guilt over abandoning it eating at them. Stiles thinks that Isaac will feel less of a need to stick close to him now that things with Scott are out in the open, though he privately resolves to ensure that the guy does not become a stranger.

Stiles likes having a little brother, and he’s fairly certain that Isaac feels the same way if all the snuggling and puppyish expressions he sends his way are anything to go by.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Stiles turns the knob for Derek, opening the cottage white door. He breathes in the scent of Derek that saturates the room, even to his human senses, and makes his way toward the lamp he can just make out in the faint light spilling in from the hallway. His world becomes a muted mix of yellow and green, the forest green fabric draped over the antique lamp tinting the light.

He had been with Derek when he picked out the furnishings for his bedroom, the others in the pack off choosing things for their own. Prepared for a pallette that ranged from black to grey, Stiles had been pleasantly surprised - or shocked; shocked would probably be the more apt descriptor in this instance - by the browns and greens the alpha chose, from the sage bedding covering the king-sized bed, to the mahogany bureau and bedside table that match the bedframe, right down to the mossy green carpet that felt like a cloud straight from heaven (“Dude, I’m so serious, you have _got_ to feel this. I thought I knew what ‘soft’ meant, but after touching this swatch, nothing else is worthy of the word. If you don’t put this in your room, there is _no justice_.”).

A pile of clothes sits perfectly folded atop the comforter, and Stiles turns to tell Derek that he will wait out in the hall, but sees the werewolf already in the act of closing his bedroom door. Swallowing the words before they can take shape on his unexpectedly dry tongue, Stiles moves to shut it for him, and feels more than sees Derek making his way toward the bed.

This is not a big deal.

The guys in the pack change in front of each other all the time, or so Scott says. Stiles himself changes in the locker room before and after lacrosse practice. There is nothing about this situation that necessitates the acceleration of his pulse, the catch in his breath.

Except that it is, and there is, and Stiles determinedly does not turn until he hears the drag of a zipper that signals that Derek is at least halfway decent, trying to push down the swell of _want_. He fails spectacularly when he realizes that Derek is watching him, their eyes meeting until he pulls his black t-shirt over his head.

Stiles runs over everything that has happened tonight, over their interactions since the pack first started to stabilize, over the quiet heat in Derek’s gaze, and everything starts to fall into place. Running his fingers over the strap of his messenger bag, which he had not actually intended to cart around after reaching the house, he licks his lips and then speaks tentatively, staring at a patch of carpet slightly to the left of Derek’s feet. “In the forest tonight... you could have gone to anyone in the pack. You could have waited for all of us to come back. You could have done a lot of things. But you came to _me_.” He stops, flicks his eyes up to catch Derek’s briefly, sees him nod once. “That, um, that means something, right? I’m not reading into this too much, or, or reading it wrong?”

The space between his last word and Derek’s reply is more terrifying than it probably should be, but this is the first time Stiles has allowed himself to acknowledge just how much he wants to be right about this, the first time he has pushed past the reflexive denial with which he has shielded his heart, so strong in the face of the supernatural, but so fragile in moments like this. So Stiles feels entirely justified for the enormous relief that sweeps through him at the soft, “No, you’re not reading it wrong,” that finally drifts through the air to reach his straining ears.

It starts small, and then stretches millimeter by millimeter across his face, the overwhelmed grin an unstoppable thing - not that he would want to stop it even if he could - and the answering upward tilt at the corners of Derek’s lips is the sweetest validation. “I’m not?”

“No.”

_Okay, then._

Okay.


	5. Together we'll walk this loamy path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek lay the foundations for the safety of their pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys thought that furry little friend Stiles met was gone, didn't you?
> 
> This chapter is a little abstract, but I kind of like the way it came out.
> 
> The song for this chapter is Rusted Root's _Send Me on My Way_.

Sunlight filters in through the leaves, a green that speaks of growing things, of beginnings and things made new. The air is warm and thick with the promise of the first days of summer, interspersed with the sounds of forest life. A rusty red fox pokes his inquisitive head out from his hole, eyes focused upon the two quiet creatures who look far too peaceful to smell so wild, such a part of the forest. The one who disturbed his slumber in what, to his mind, was an age ago, sprinkles something strange upon the ground, gaze intent upon his task. The other stares at his companion, taking in his every move as though determined to never miss a moment of his companion’s existence, as though knowledge of every purse of his lips and flutter of his lashes is vital to his continued happiness.

Sensing the fox’s scrutiny, the disturber of sleep glances up from his task and smiles, sending him a nod in lieu of a jaunty wave or salute. His companion follows his gaze and alights upon the fox, and the fox lowers his head, deferent.

His ears prick up as the disturber speaks, and he risks raising his eyes. Neither being watches him now, looking instead at each other. He pads further out of his home and sits on his haunches in the grass in order to continue his observations in comfort. “I think that’s the same little guy I woke up a few weeks ago when I was making my way to the creek. I’m glad he’s on this side of the preserve.”

“And why is that?” his companion asks, something indulgent in the set of his mouth and the rise of one eyebrow.

Brimming with good humor, the disturber explains, “The way I see it, after screwing up his sleep, protecting him from a bunch of alphas is the least I can do.”

Rolling his eyes, his companion struggles to hide his amusement, then wryly abandons the attempt. “Stiles, we don’t actually eat every animal that crosses our path. I’m pretty sure the fox will be safe, with or without the mountain ash.”

“Still,” the disturber, who the other called ‘Stiles,’ insists, “it’s nice to know the little guy will be okay once I get this done.” He examines the area where the proof of his labor dusts the earth, “And so will we.”

“So now the truth comes out,” his companion deadpans. “You wanted to circle our property with the ash to protect the local wildlife.”

Stiles snorts. “Might I remind you that you and most of the rest of the pack are _part_ of the ‘local wildlife’? Besides, the others have been getting restless, sticking so close to the house. I never meant for the barrier I put around it to be permanent. I just needed something to hold us over until I could get more supplies.” Then he starts, his eyes, which the fox likens to a doe’s, becoming impossibly wider. “Wait a minute. You said ‘our property’ - as in _ours_ , as in _shared ownership_. Derek, what-”

Taking his hands out of his pockets, ‘Derek’ slides one into the hand slack at Stiles’ side, running his thumb over his knuckles and along the back. “You’re surprised.”

Sputtering, Stiles opens his mouth and searches for the words before getting out, “Uh, surprised? Well, _yeah_ , I’m surprised. I mean - it’s kind of a big thing, don’t you think?”

The pair goes silent for a time, and the fox waits. Eventually, Derek steps closer to Stiles, putting his free hand on his hip. When he breaks the interlude, his voice is soft, contemplative. “It isn’t so big, really, when you think about everything else.”

“You mean, ‘what’s a few hundred acres among mates, compared to driving your jeep into the back of one of your classmates or almost having to chop off someone’s arm?’” Stiles offers.

Huffing, Derek brings their foreheads together, almost concealing the small upturn of his lips from the fox’s view. “Something like that, yeah.”

Stiles pulls back a little to be able to look into Derek’s eyes. “Yeah, okay. I guess that’s fair. Still, these are the kinds of things you _tell people_ , you know?” Cocking his head, he asks, “So, wait, if we both own the preserve, does that mean we share the camero, too?”

Grimacing, Derek releases his hold on his mate’s hip and stands beside him once more, swinging their joined hands to encourage him to begin moving anew. Stiles complies, letting a little more of what must be the mountain ash fall in their wake. “In theory, yes. But unless you want me driving your jeep...”

His entire body gives a discomfited jerk before Stiles says decisively, “Uh, no, that’s cool. Why draw attention to ourselves by doing the car-swapping thing, right? Some of the women in this town gossip like you would not _believe_.”

The smug, “That’s what I thought,” is answered by an indignant, “ _Hey!_ ” as the fox watches the two of them pass out of sight.

As he makes his way back into his little hole, he hears from a distance, “I’m committed to this thing, too, you know. To you and the pack.”

The fox settles in and just barely catches the murmured, “I know.”

Then the two creatures are gone, but the scent of them remains, a blanket of security enveloping everything it touches. Of this much, the fox is certain: whatever the task Stiles performs, it is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be putting it up here, but on tumblr, I'll be posting the cover I made for this fic, along with a link to the first chapter. Feel free to follow me - or not, if my politics serve as a deterrent. pixiethisisnotmybeautifulhouse.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have taken a gander at this fic, left kudos or comments, and waited patiently for updates! You're all darlings, and I appreciate you for it.


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